Part 3

Well, in the coorse of time poor Paddy felt his days wor well-nigh numbered, so he tuk to the bed an’ sent for the priest; an’ thin he settled himself down to aise his conscience an’ to clear the road in the other world by manes of a good confession.

[Illustration: FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE.]

He reeled off his sins, mortial an’ vaynial, to the priest by the yard, an’ begor he felt mighty sorrowful intirely whin he thought what a bad boy he’d been an’ what a hape of quare things he’d done in his time—though, as I’ve said before, he was a dacent little man in his way, only, you see, bein’ so close to the other side of Jordan, he tuk an onaisy view of all his sayin’s and doin’s. Poor Paddy—small blame to him—was very aiger to get a comfortable corner in glory in his old age, for he’d a hard sthruggle enough of it here below.

Well, whin he’d towld all his sins to Father McGrath, an’ whin Father McGrath had given him a few hard rubs by way of consolation, he bent his head to get the absolution, an’, lo an’ behold you! before the priest could get through the words that would open the gates of glory to poor Paddy the life wint out of the man’s body.

It seems ’twas a busy mornin’ in heaven, an’ as soon as Father McGrath began to say the first words of the absolution, down they claps Paddy Power’s name on the due-book.—However, we’ll come to that part of the story by an’ by.

Anyhow, up goes Paddy, an’ before he knew where he was he found himself standin’ outside the gates of Paradise. Of coorse, he partly guessed there ’ud be throuble, but he thought he’d put a bowld face on, so he gives a hard double-knock at the door, an’ a holy saint shoves back the slide an’ looks out at him through an iron gratin’.

“God save all here!” says Paddy.

“God save you kindly!” says the saint.

“Maybe I’m too airly?” says Paddy, dhreadin’ all the time that ’tis the cowld showlder he’d get.

“’Tis naither airly nor late here,” says the saint, “pervidin’ you’re on the way-bill. What’s yer name?” says he.

“Paddy Power,” says the little man from Portlaw.

“There’s so many of that name due here,” says the saint, “that I must ax you for further particulars.”

“You’re quite welcome, your reverence,” says Paddy.

“What’s your occupation?” says the saint.

“Well,” says Paddy, “I can turn my hand to anything in raison.”

“A kind of Jack-of-all-thrades?” says the saint.

“Not exactly that,” says Paddy, thinkin’ the saint was thryin’ to make fun of him. “In fact,” says he, “I’m a general dayler.”

“An’ what do you generally dale in?” axes the saint.

“All’s fish that comes to my net,” says Paddy, thinkin’ of coorse ’twould put Saint Pether in good humour to be reminded of ould times.

“An’ is it a fisherman you are, thin?” axes the saint.

“Well, no,” says Paddy, “though I’ve done a little huckstherin’ in fish in my time; but I was partial to scrap iron, as a rule.”

“To tell you the thruth,” says the saint, “I’m not over fond of general daylin’, but of coorse my private feelin’s don’t intherfere wud my duties here. I’m on the gates agen my will for the matther of that; but that’s naither here nor there so far as yourself is consarned, Paddy,” says he.

“It must be a hard dhrain on the constitution at times,” says Paddy, “to be on the door from mornin’ till night.”

“’Tis,” says the saint, “of a busy day—but I must go an’ have a look at the books. Paddy Power is your name?” says he.

“Yis,” says Paddy; “an’, though ’tis meself, that says it, I’m not ashamed of it.”

“An’ where are you from?” axes the saint.

“From the parish of Portlaw,” says Paddy.

“I never heard tell of it,” says the saint, bitin’ his thumb.

“Sure it couldn’t be expected you would, sir,” says Paddy, “for it lies at the back of God-speed.”

“Well stand there, Paddy _avic_,” says the holy saint, “an’ I’ll have a good look at the books.”

“God bless you!” says Paddy. “Wan ’ud think ’twas born in Munsther you wor, Saint Pether, you have such an iligant accent in spaykin’.”

Faix, Paddy was beginnin’ to dhread that his name wouldn’t be found on the books at all on account of his not havin’ complate absolution, so he thought ’twas the best of his play to say a soft word to the keeper of the kays.

The saint tuk a hasty glance at the enthry-book, but when Paddy called him Saint Pether he lifted his head, an’ he put his face to the wicket again, an’ there was a cunnin’ twinkle in his eye.

“An’ so you thinks ’tis Saint Pether I am?” says he.

“Of coorse, your reverence,” says Paddy; “an’ ’tis a rock of sense I’m towld you are.”

Well, wud that the saint began to laugh very hearty, an’ says he,—

“Now it’s a quare thing that every wan of ye that comes from below thinks Saint Pether is on the gates constant. Do you ralely think, Paddy,” says he, “that Saint Pether has nothing else to do, nor no way to pass the time except by standin’ here in the cowld from year’s end to year’s end, openin’ the gates of Paradise?”

“Begor,” says Paddy, “that never sthruck me before, sure enough. Of coorse he must have some sort of divarsion to pass the time. An’ might I ax your reverence,” says he, “what your own name is, an’ I hopes you’ll pardon my ignorance.”

“Don’t mintion that,” says the saint; “but I’d rather not tell you my name, just yet at any rate, for a raison of my own.”

“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me, sir,” says Paddy.

“’Tis a civil-spoken little man you are,” says the saint.

Findin’ the saint was such a nice agreeable man an’ such an iligant discoorser, Paddy thought he’d venture on a few remarks just to dodge the time until some other poor sowl ’ud turn up an’ give him the chance to slip into Paradise unbeknowst—for he knew that wance he got in by hook or by crook they could never have the heart to turn him out of it again. So says he,—

“Might I ax what Saint Pether is doin’ just now?”

“He’s at a hurlin’ match,” says the deputy.

“Oh murdher!” says Paddy, “couldn’t I get a peep at the match while you’re examinin’ the books?”

“I’m afeard not,” says the saint, shakin’ his head. “Besides,” says he, “I think the fun is nearly over by this time.”

“Is there often a hurlin’ match here?” axes Paddy.

“Wance a year,” says the saint. “You see,” says he, pointin’ over his showldher wud his thumb, “they have all nationalities in here, and they plays the game of aich nation on aich pathron saint’s day, if you undherstand me.”

“I do,” says Paddy. “An’ sure enough ’twas Saint Pathrick’s Day in the mornin’ whin I started from Portlaw, an’ the last thing I did—of coorse before tellin’ my sins—was to dhrink my Pathrick’s pot.”

“More power to you!” says the saint.

“I suppose Saint Pathrick is the umpire to-day?” says Paddy.

“No,” says the saint. “Aich of us, you see, takes our turn at the gates on our own festival days.”

“Holy Moses!” shouts Paddy. “Thin ’tis to Saint Pathrick himself I’ve been talkin’ all this while back. Oh murdher alive, did I ever think I’d live to see this day!”

Begor the poor _augashore_ of a man was fairly knocked off his head to discover he was discoorsin’ so fameeliarly wud the great Saint Pathrick, an the great saint himself was proud to see what a dale the little man from Portlaw thought of him; but he didn’t let on to Paddy how plaized he was. “Ah!” says he, “sure we’re all on an aiquality here. You’ll be a great saint yourself, maybe, wan of these days.”

“The heavens forbid,” says Paddy, “that I’d dhrame of ever being on an aiquality wud your reverence! Begor ’tis a joyful man I’d be to be allowed to spake a few words to you wance in a blue moon. Aiquality _inagh_!” says he. “Sure what aiquality could there be between the great apostle of Ould Ireland and Paddy Power, general dayler, from Portlaw?”

“I wish there was more of ’em your way of thinkin’, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick, sighin’ deeply.

“An’ do you mane to tell me,” says Paddy, “that any craychur inside there ’ud dare to put himself on an aiqual footin’ wud yourself?”

“I do, thin,” says Saint Pathrick; “an’ worse than that,” says he, “there’s some of ’em thinks ’tis very small potatoes I am, in their own mind. I gives you me word, Paddy, that it takes me all my time occasionally to keep my timper wud Saint George an’ Saint Andhrew.”

“Bad luck to ’em both!” says Paddy, intherruptin’ him.

“Whisht!” says Saint Pathrick. “I partly admires your sentiments, but I must tell you there’s no rale ill-will allowed inside here. You’ll feel complately changed wance you gets at the right side of the gate.”

“The divil a change could make me keep quiet,” says Paddy, “if I heard the biggest saint in Paradise say a hard word agen you, or even dar’ to put himself on a par wud you!”

“Oh, Paddy!” says Saint Pathrick, “you mustn’t allow your timper to get the betther of you. ’Tis hard, I know, _avic_, to sthruggle at times agen your feelin’s, but the laiste said the soonest mended.”

“An’ will I meet Saint George and Saint Andhrew whin I get inside?”

“You will,” says Saint Pathrick; “but you mustn’t disgrace our counthry by makin’ a row wud aither of ’em.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Paddy, “as ’tis yourself that axes me. An’ is there any more of ’em that thrates you wud contimpt?”

“Well, not many,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ indeed,” says he, “’tis only an odd day we meets at all; an’ I can tell you I’m not a bad hand at takin’ my own part—but there’s wan fellow,” says he, “that breaks my _giddawn_ intirely.”

“An’ who is he? the bla’guard!” says Paddy.

“He’s an uncanonized craychur named Brakespeare,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A wondher you’d be seen talkin’ to the likes of him!” says Paddy; “an’ who is he at all?”

“Did you never hear tell of him?” says Saint Pathrick.

“Never,” says Paddy.

“Well,” says Saint Pathrick, “he made the worst bull—”

“Thin,” says Paddy, intherruptin’ him in hot haste, “he’s wan of ourselves—more shame for him! O wait till I gets a grip of him by the scruff of the neck!”

“Whisht! I tell you!” says Saint Pathrick. “Perhaps ’tis committin’ a vaynial sin you are now, an’ if that wor to come to Saint Pether’s ears, maybe he’d clap twinty years of Limbo on to you—for he’s a hard man sometimes, especially if he hears of any one losin’ his timper, or getting impatient at the gates. An’ moreover,” says Saint Pathrick, “himself an’ this Brakespeare are as thick as thieves, for they both sat in the same chair below. I had a hot argument wud Nick yesterday.”

“Ould Nick, is it?” says Paddy.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick laughin’. “Nick Brakespeare, I mane—the same indeveedual I was tellin’ you about.”

“I beg your reverence’s pardon,” says Paddy, “an’ I hopes you’ll excuse my ignorance. But you wor goin’ to give me an account of this hot argument you had wud the bla’guard whin I put in my spoke.”

Begor Saint Pathrick dhrew in his horns thin, an’ fearin’ Paddy might think they wor in the habit of squabblin’ in heaven he says, “Of coorse, I meant only a frindly discussion.”

“An’ what was the frindly discussion about?” axes Paddy.

“About this bull of his,” says Saint Pathrick.

“The mischief choke himself an’ his cattle!” says Paddy.

“Begor,” says Saint Pathrick, “’twas choked the poor man was, sure enough.”

“More power to the man that choked him!” says Paddy. “I hopes ye canonized him.”

“’Twasn’t a man at all,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A faymale, perhaps?” says Paddy.

“Fie, fie, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick. “Come, guess again.”

“Ah, I’m a poor hand at guessin’,” says Paddy.

“Well, ’twas a blue bottle,” says Saint Pathrick.

“An’ was it thryin’ to swallow the bottle an’ all he was?” says Paddy. “He must have been ‘a hard case.’”

Begor Saint Pathrick burst out laughin’, an’ says he, “You’ll make your mark here, Paddy, I have no doubt.”

“I’ll make my mark on them that slights your reverence, believe me,” says Paddy.

“Hush!” says Saint Pathrick, puttin’ his finger on his lips an’ lookin’ very solemn an’ business-like. “Here comes Saint Pether,” he whispers, rattlin’ the kays to show he was mindin’ his duties. “He looks in good-humour too; so it’s in luck you are.”

“I hope so, at any rate,” says Paddy; “for the clouds is very damp, an’ I’m throubled greatly wud the rheumatics.”

“Well, Pathrick,” says Saint Pether, comin’ up to the gates—Paddy Power could just get a sighth of the pair inside through the bars of the wicket—“how goes the inemy? Have you had a hard day of it, my son?”

“A very hard mornin’,” says Saint Pathrick. “They wor flockin’ here as thick as flies at cock-crow—I mane,” says he, gettin’ very red in the face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin’ his fut in it wud Saint Pether, “I mane just at daybreak.”

“It’s strange,” says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, “but I’ve noticed meself that there’s often a great rush of people in the early mornin’: often I don’t know whether it’s on my head or my heels I do be standin’ wud the noise they kicks up outside, elbowin’ wan another, an’ bawlin’ at me as if it was hard of hearin’ I was.”

“How did the match go?” says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint Pether’s mind from his throubles.

“Grand!” says Saint Pether, brightenin’ up. “Hurlin’ is a great game. It takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who’s that outside?” catching sighth of Paddy Power.

“A poor fellow from Ireland,” says Saint Pathrick.

“I dunno how we’re to find room for all these Irishmen,” says Saint Pether, scratchin’ his head. “’Twas only last week I gev ordhers to have a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an’ begor I’m towld to-day that ’tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room for the poor sowls. Did this chap come _viâ_ Purgathory?” says he.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick. “They sint him up direct.”

“Who is he” says Saint Pether.

“His name is Paddy Power,” says St. Pathrick, “He seems a dacent sort of craychur.”

“Where’s he from?” axes Saint Pether.

“The Parish of Portlaw,” says Saint Pathrick.

“Portlaw!” says Saint Pether. “Well, that’s sthrange,” says he, rubbin’ his chin. “You know I never forgets a name, but to my sartin knowledge I never heard of Portlaw before. Has he a clane record?”

“There’s a thrifle wrong about it,” says Saint Pathrick. “He’s down on the way bill, but there are some charges agen him not quite rubbed out.”

“In that case,” says Saint Pether, “we’d best be on the safe side, an’ sind him to Limbo for a spell.”

Begor when Paddy Power heard this he nearly lost his seven sinses wud the fright, so he puts his face close up to the wicket, an’ he cries out in a pitiful voice,—

“O blessed Saint Pether, don’t be too hard on me. Sure even below, where the law is sthrict enough agen a poor sthrugglin’ boy, they always allows him the benefit of the doubt, an’ I gives you my word, yer reverence, ’twas only by an accident the slate wasn’t rubbed clane. I know for sartin that Father McGrath said some of the words of the absolution before the life wint out of my body. Don’t dhrive a helpless ould man to purgathory, I beseeches you. Saint Pathrick will go bail for my good behaviour, I’ll be bound; an’ tis many the prayer I said to your own self below!”

Faix, Saint Pether was touched wud the implorin’ way Paddy spoke, an’ turnin’ to Saint Pathrick he says, “’Tis a quare case, sure enough. I don’t know that I ever remimber the like before, an’ my memory is of the best. I think we’d do right to have a consultation over the affair before we decides wan way or the other.”

“Ah give the poor _angashore_ a chance,” says Saint Pathrick. “’Tis hard to scald him for an accident. Besides,” says he, brightenin’ up as a thought sthruck him, “you say you never had a man before from the parish of Portlaw, an’ I remember you towld me wance that you’d like to have a represintative here from every parish in the world.”

“Thrue enough,” says Saint Pether; “an maybe I’d never have another chance from Portlaw.”

“Maybe not,” says Saint Pathrick, humourin’ him.

So Saint Pether takes a piece of injy-rubber from his waistcoat pocket, an’ goin’ over to the enthry-book he rubs out the charges agen Paddy Power.

“I’ll take it on meself,” says he, “to docthor the books for this wance, only don’t let the cat out of the bag on me, Pathrick, my son.”

“Never fear,” says Saint Pathrick. “Depind your life on me.”

“Well, it’s done, anyhow,” says Saint Pether, puttin’ the injy-rubber back into his pocket; “an’ if you hands me over the kays, Pat,” says he, “I’ll relase you for the day, so that you can show your frind over the grounds.”

“’Tis a grand man you are!” says Saint Pathrick. “My blessin’ on you, _avic_!”

“Come in, Paddy Power,” says Saint Pether, openin’ the gates; “an’ rimember always that you wouldn’t be here for maybe nine hundred an’ ninety-nine year or more only that you’re the only offer we ever had from the Parish of Portlaw.”

[Illustration: KING JOHN AND THE MAYOR.]

[Illustration: (banner) KING JOHN AND THE MAYOR]

I suppose it’s well known that King John made two visits to the city of Watherford. The first time he came he was only a slip of a boy of about nineteen year, an’ his father, who had a hard job rearin’ him (for ’tis the unmannerdly young cub he was) thought he’d kill two birds wud wan stone by gettin’ rid of the prince for a short spell in the first place, an’ by gettin’ the boy to make himself frindly wud the Irish chiefs in the second place.

But nothin’ would suit young Masther John except divarsion an’ bla’guardin’. The moment he put his fut on Irish soil he began to poke fun at the ould chieftains’ beards. ’Twas jealous the young jackanapes was of the fine hairy faces of the crowd that met him on the quay of Watherford, for divil a hair he could grow on the upper part of his lip, though he was near dhraggin’ the English coort into bankruptcy wud the quantities of bears’ grease an’ other barbers’ thricks he thried day afther day to coax out even a few morsels of a moustache.

Anyhow he made naither a good beginnin’ nor a good endin’ on his first thrip to Ireland. He ate so much fresh salmon that a rash broke out on him, an’ nearly dhrove him to despair, for he was fond of the faymales, an’ a man wud a bad rash even if he’s a prince of the blood isn’t the soort of craychur to make much headway wud the girls.

He got over the rash, however, in due coorse; an’ built an hospital in mimory of his recovery; an’ to this day it stands there at the fut of John’s Hill, an’ is called the “Leper Hospital.”

As soon as he got well rid of the rash, he began to make ructions in the counthry, kickin’ out the rale ould anshant owners of the soil, an’ makin’ presents of what didn’t belong to him to his own follyers. Begor even owld Henery, the father, got unaisy at the son’s plan of campaign, so back he calls Prince John an’ puts a Misther Decoorcy in his place.

Well, time passed on, an’ when his call came, ould Henery the Second wint to Limbo; an’ afther a spell, the son John got a howld of the throne. He had always a hankerin’ for the Watherford salmon, even afther the rash it broke out on him, so as soon as he could make things snug in the English coort, away he sails again for Ireland.

This time of coorse he was a full king, an’ as he was several years ouldher, the Watherford people naaturally expected his manners would have improved; so they made up their minds to forget the thricks an’ bla’guardin’ of the nineteen year ould prince, an’ to give King John a hearty welcome.

When the Mayor an’ Corporation heard the news that the royal barge was comin’ up the river, they put on their grand robes and started down the quay. They wint outside the walls a bit until they came to a piece of slob land near the mouth of a sthrame, an’ there they stud up to their ankles in slush until the king’s ship hove in sighth. Thin they waved a flag of welcome to his Majesty, who was standin’ on deck, an’ bawled out to him to dhrop anchor abreast of them. So the captain—a red-whiskered Welshman who chawed more tobaccy than was wholesome for him—puts the ship’s head in for the shore, an’ dhropped anchor as soon as he got close to the slob where the Mayor and Corporation wor standin’.

“How are we to get ashore, boys?” says King John, makin’ a foghorn of his fists.

“Aisy, _avic_,” says the Mayor. “It’s a sthrong ebb tide now, an’ if you’ll go below into your cabin the ship will dhry while your clanein’ your face an’ hands an’ fixin’ the crown on your poll.”

“All right,” says King John. “Come aboord as soon as the tide laives her.”

“I will,” says the Mayor.

Wud that King John went down to the cabin, an’ in about half an hour the ship began to ground an’ very soon afther the Mayor, not heedin’ the sighth of a fut or two of wather between him an’ the king’s craft, made a start to go down to her.

“Howld on there, where ye are,” says he to the Corporation. “If ye was all to come aboord maybe ’tis heel over the little vessel would, for she looks a crank piece of goods.”

“All right,” says the Corporation. “We’ll wait here till you return, an’ a safe journey to your worship!”

Well, whin the Mayor got on deck of coorse his boots were dhrippin’ wud mud an’ wather.

“Is there a door-mat aboord?” says he to the skipper.

“Divil a wan,” says the skipper. “Do you think ’tis in a lady’s chamber you are?”

“You’re an unmannerdly lot,” says the Mayor, stampin’ on the decks an’ givin’ a kick out wud his left leg to shake some of the water out of his boot.

Just at that moment up comes King John from the cabin, an’ a few spatthers of mud went into his royal eye.